


Roses

by ElizaHiggs



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: After the Wedding, Angst, F/M, Just kidding there's no wizards in this, Longing, Post-Canon, Post-Career of Evil, So much wizard angst, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 01:58:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14684055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizaHiggs/pseuds/ElizaHiggs
Summary: “Congratulations.”Strike stood on the front steps of a church in the brilliant sunshine. Robin stood before him, swathed in white and crowned with roses.





	Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Can be read as a prequel to [Partners](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14508651). Should definitely be read as a love letter to this fabulous fandom. <3
> 
> I own none of these lovely characters.

“Congratulations.”

Strike stood on the front steps of a church in the brilliant sunshine.

Robin stood before him, swathed in white and crowned with roses. He considered, briefly, leaning forward to kiss her cheek, as he had seen the other guests do, and then decided against it. His nose was still swollen, and at least half of his face still painfully purple. He settled for a left-handed handshake. “You look beautiful,” he said. 

It was true. Her makeup had been done up heavily, no doubt with photographs in mind, but it was a soft, muted sort of pink that Strike thought suited her. She was also smiling, brilliant like the sun. 

He had positioned himself, intentionally, at the very end of the receiving line. Matthew had given him the tightest of nods and the briefest of handshakes before turning away, clasping the shoulder of his new father-in-law and steering the man towards the ribbon-bedecked Bentley waiting at the end of the drive, leaving Robin and Strike essentially alone. It was, Strike thought, the nicest thing Matthew had ever done. 

Robin’s smile faded as her eyes scanned his blackened eye, the stitches in his ear. “What happened? Did you—”

“Yeah. Got him. Laing.”

“Oh—good.” She was chewing her lower lip. She still hadn’t released his hand. “And you—”

“M’fine.” Strike waved his free hand, and then regretted doing so when he realized it showed off the white bandage. “Just a bit banged up, that’s all.”

Robin looked as though she were going to argue, but then evidently decided against it. She smiled again, and this time it wavered just the tiniest bit. “Well—thank you for coming. And I—I really am sorry about everything.” She pulled her hand free from his. 

“Yeah. Listen, Robin—”

“I should go. I’ll see you at the reception? You’ll be there?” She took a half step towards the waiting Bentley and looked at him imploringly. As though he could’ve said no to anything she wanted, just then. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I—Shanker’s here.”

“Oh—he’s welcome too, of course. We’ll make room.”

He nodded, and then watched her float off towards the car. She held up the long skirt of her dress as she walked, revealing plain white pumps. Strike frowned. Well, at least that explained where she’d gotten the money to buy Shanker’s attention. 

The reception was, to Strike’s experience, typical. The second floor of a country club, adorned with white roses and pale pink gauze. A dozen white-clothed tables were scattered around a dance floor. Robin had enlisted her mother to welcome their two unexpected—and in one case, uninvited—guests, and if the good-natured woman had been shocked by either his or Shanker’s bloodied appearance, she hid it well as she contrived to find seats for them at table. 

The couple shared their first dance, and cut the cake, and if Matthew looked a little stiff, well. Strike knew that was his fault, but there was little to be done about it now. Nor did he have any particular desire to attend to Matthew’s happiness. 

“Imma have a smoke, Bunsen,” Shanker said to him as the meal was being cleared. 

“Yeah, go ahead.” Strike shifted in his seat, craving a fag himself. He accepted a cup of coffee from a member of the waitstaff as he watched Shanker make for the patio that jutted off the reception hall. Shanker threw a wave to the bride as he passed, who glanced from the mercenary to where Strike sat, squeezed between cousins at one of the little round tables. Robin visibly hesitated, then turned back to the group of women clamoring for her attention. She had been making the rounds, dancing with the men and chatting with the women, but she hadn’t yet approached Strike, which he suspected was a concession to Matthew. But—he had come here for a purpose, and he couldn’t allow himself to leave until he had made his case. Before Mrs. Cunliffe turned away from her beloved, budding career forever. 

Strike rose, rolling his shoulders, which were still stiff from the hours in the car, and made his way towards Robin, where she hovered near the edge of the dance floor, apparently still deep in conversation. She was surrounded by a cloister of rather tipsy girls, who parted nervously as he approached. 

“Can we talk a minute?”

Robin turned towards him, and the color rose in her face. She had lost some of the floating innocence of a blushing bride. She’d removed the crown of roses after the first dance, and now wore the slightly exerted look of a woman who had been on her feet for hours. Strike told himself it was a good thing. The gauze, the white, the roses—they had only reminded him of her vulnerability, fueled his over-protective nature. But now she reminded him of Robin-in-action, that woman he was in danger of admiring a little too much. 

“Of course,” she said. “Dance with me.”

Strike opened his mouth to protest—he had been going to suggest that they step aside, to an area where they might speak in relative privacy—perhaps the porch, if they could shake Shanker. But her hands had already gone to his shoulders, and his hands found her waist of their own accord. The dance music was recorded, but classy, and not—Strike blessed his luck—pop. It was relatively easy to move in time to the music, even through the disturbing fog that had begun to cloud his brain. 

They both began talking at once. “Sorry,” Strike said. “You go.”

Robin shook her head, and the red-gold curls danced on her bare shoulders. “I was just saying again that I’m so happy you’re here. And I’m sorry that I haven’t talked to you much at all tonight, but, well.” She glanced over at Matthew, who was standing with some blokes near the bar and pretending to ignore them. 

“Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that,” Strike said quickly. “Listen, Robin. I know I said that I wouldn’t bother you again, but I wanted to let you know the offer’s still on the table. If you want to come back—”

“What are you talking about?” Her face had turned quizzical while he was speaking. “When did you say that?”

“On your voicemail. I left a message three days ago.”

“Three days...?” She shook her head. “You didn’t leave me a voicemail.”

“I called you,” Strike said slowly. “Twice.”

Her eyes widened. “My phone didn’t get any missed calls from you. Or a voicemail.” Strike saw where her mind was headed a second before she voiced it. “Matthew.”

Shit. He shook his head. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do.” Her eyes slid away from his, towards the floor. It was like he could see the gears sliding into place in her head. “He had my phone, on Wednesday. I left it with him so he could make a call. You called around noon, didn’t you?”

Strike didn’t respond. It was probably true, he thought, but it was definitely not what Robin needed right now. “Robin—”

“Didn’t you?” she demanded. 

He couldn’t lie to her. “Yeah.”

“Oh my god,” she whispered. The fingers on his shoulders slackened. 

“Robin, look—I don’t want to get between you and your husband. That’s not why I’m here.”

“My—” Her eyes looked around wildly until she found his face again. “I need some air.”

He steered her towards the patio. Shanker looked at them curiously as they came out the French doors, but Strike shook his head at him. Shanker shrugged, ground his cigarette out under his heel, and headed back inside. 

Robin was leaning against the railing, gazing out into the fading dusk with dull eyes. Strike lit a fag for want of something to do with his hands. His fingers missed the feel of satin beneath them. He positioned himself downwind and joined her at the railing.

“If you don’t want to come back,” he said, blowing smoke carefully away from her. “I’ll understand.”

“Of course I want to come back,” she said shortly, then grimaced. “Sorry. I just...” She shook her head. 

“I know,” Strike said. 

“This is supposed to be a happy day.”

“Yeah.”

“I could kill him.”

“I’d have to report you.”

She laughed, shakily, and pushed off the railing and spun around to lean against it. One pale pink painted thumbnail found its way into her mouth. “I wasn’t happy at all until you showed up,” she said quietly. 

Dangerous territory. “You sold your shoes,” he said, nodding at the floor. 

“What?” The thumbnail left her mouth, and she looked up at him, startled. 

There was a soft hint of moisture clinging to her lower lip. Strike nodded again. “Your Jimmy Choos—you sold them. To pay Shanker.”

“Oh—yeah. Returned them for the cash.” 

“You’d’ve done anything to save that little girl.”

She nodded, slowly, watching his face. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Strike shook his head, and ground out his cigarette under his false heel. “Don’t be. You succeeded.”

She frowned. “How so?”

He pushed off the railing and faced her. “I would’ve done anything to get Brockbank away from his stepdaughter,” he said quietly. “You succeeded where I failed.”

For the first time, she looked as though she might cry. She folded her arms across her chest and looked away, then back at him again. “Thank you for understanding.”

“Shanker knows he’s never to take orders from you again.”

She nodded and gave him a watery smile. “Of course.”

“And—yeah.” Impossible to be stern with her. He couldn’t call up even a fraction of the anger he’d felt just a few days ago, only a lingering fear that she might, someday, put herself in a predicament from which she couldn’t escape. His eyes found the jagged purple scar running down the length of her arm. She’d already survived more than anyone should have to. 

“I don’t want to go back in there,” she said. Her gaze was fixed on the open French doors.

“Anything I can do?” His heart was pounding as he became aware of what some small part of him was hoping to hear. _Get me out of here. Take me back to London, Cormoran._

She shook her head sadly. “Just dance with me?” 

The music reached them through the open doors, an old-fashioned love song by one of the crooners, although Strike, raised on rock-and-roll, couldn’t have said if it were Sinatra or White or otherwise.

Her arms came around him again, and Strike was startled by the strength of the temptation to crush her against himself. His hands found her waist, then her hips. She sighed and stepped closer, her arms going around his neck. He permitted himself to kiss her forehead, already at the level of his lips. He really did like her in heels. 

For the length of a love song, they less danced than simply held one another, swaying gently in time to the music. They were too close to make eye contact a very comfortable endeavor, and every time he glanced down at her face, her eyes were fixed on his shoulder. 

Her fingers found the lapel of his suit jacket. “You must be warm in this.”

“A bit.” He was quite warm, under the formal layers. The dichotomy of men’s and women’s formal dress struck him anew as he considered her bare shoulders. He wondered if she could smell him as clearly as he could her, the familiar scent of her perfume enveloping, pressing in on him with the heat of the night. 

She let her fingers cling to him as they swayed. The song ended, and they pulled apart just slightly. She met his eyes with a desperate, pleading look. 

Strike steeled himself. “Robin—”

“May I cut in?”

The voice startled them. It was Matthew, stone-faced, gazing steadily at Strike with ugly, naked hate in his face. 

Strike disentangled himself from Robin’s arms, muttering something about needing a last cigarette before getting back on the road, and offering a final congratulations to Matthew. 

“Thank you for entertaining my wife,” Matthew said coldly. 

Robin grimaced. Strike nodded. 

Matthew led his new wife back through the double doors. His wife, Strike reminded himself. _His_. Robin glanced back over her shoulder, frowning as though she could hear his thoughts. She hated any insinuation that she belonged to Matthew. But if she didn’t want to be Matthew’s, Strike thought, then she shouldn’t have married him. 

Or maybe, his treacherous brain suggested, you should have done something about it before she did. 

Strike lit up another fag and wondered how many married women he was going to end up in love with. Surely there was a lifetime limit of two. 

He smoked through the final song, leaning back against the railing. A great cheering and applauding from inside reached his ears: the send-off of the happy couple. Robin would be looking for his face in the crowd. Strike remained where he was, smoking in the dark.


End file.
